The Mask of Apollo (34 page)

“If he ever gave it. I’d lay a year’s takings against. We heard all this last time, put about by Philistos. It was just a tale.”

Thettalos, who had maintained a modest quiet but could not forbear supporting me, said all Athens knew that Plato had come out about his friend Dion’s property, and to try for his recall.

“Recall?” said Menekrates, staring. “If Dion wants to come home, he’ll have to recall himself, not wait to be invited. Then, who knows … But that’s dangerous talk. We’ve traveled; we’ve seen in other cities what comes of
that
.” He walked over to the doorway, to make sure the slaves had gone to bed. Coming back, he said, “As for the property, God reward all true friends, but in Plato’s case I don’t know who else will. Dion’s land was all sold up this spring. There was some talk of putting it in trust for his son, young Hipparinos; but where’s the odds? It would go the same way as if Dionysios spent it.”

I remembered Dion’s words at Tarentum. “How old is the boy?”

“I suppose about fourteen. He’s a favorite with his uncle the Archon, who’s fond of saying he won’t grow up a spoilsport like his dad. He comes to all the parties. I was at one myself not long ago, after a
Madness of Herakles
that took well. Plato was there too. A handsome lad, they say, not unlike Dion when he was that age. But the Academy won’t see
him
; his education’s well in hand. The liveliest of the girls was sent over to his supper couch, but I couldn’t see he had much to learn. His hand was down her dress all through the first course, and up it all through the second. Old Plato did try, at the start, to get a word with him, but the boy laughed in his face. Even his uncle had to remind him he was speaking to a guest, though he couldn’t keep from smiling.”

Thettalos gave me one of his looks when Menekrates’ back was turned. He had speaking eyes; sometimes one could see it even through a mask.

“Where is Plato staying?” I asked. “His nephew is a friend of mine, and I’d like to see him.”

“Plato himself has that house in the palace garden he had before; it’s the Archon’s chief guesthouse. But I don’t think the nephew’s staying there. Maybe he wasn’t asked very heartily. I heard he was with religious folk, Pythagoreans. I’ll inquire tomorrow. Thettalos, dear boy, your cup—you’re drinking nothing. I’ll show you our theater, while Niko’s hunting sophists. The acoustics are first-class, but you need to know them.”

Next morning I went to the house where Speusippos and Plato had stayed before. For fear of missing him, I was there before sunup; when the slave reported him still in bed, I said I would wait till he woke. This was not long; while I sat on the rim of the courtyard fountain, two smiths came in with a great new bolt for the outer door. They said, as they clattered, that they were sorry to rouse the master, but they were pushed with orders like this. One must blame the times.

The din soon woke Speusippos, who looked out to see what it was. A pretty tousled girl, clutching her dress, appeared behind him; he had not counted on early rising today. Having urged her to go home quickly and not loiter in the streets, he turned and saw me. “Niko!” he said, and laughed shortly as he caught my eye. “I heard you were in Syracuse. Have you been waiting long?”

I said I was sorry his night had been cut short so rudely. “No,” he said, “it’s as well I woke. I must see Plato in Ortygia; it’s better to go early, while the streets are quiet. They seem to be expecting trouble. Come in while I finish dressing.”

His host greeted us going in, a silver-haired old man shrunk with age, but upright and with a skin like a baby’s. In Speusippos’ room, with the tumbled bed still warm with the scent of the girl, he said, “I don’t think he saw her leave. Not that I’ve ever deceived him; he knows I follow the philosophy rather than the regimen, which, let us admit, has picked up much superstition since the founder’s time. He’d say, I suppose, that I’ve set myself back two or three rebirths with last night’s work. ‘The body is the tomb of the soul.’ Well, I was on edge, which my soul was taking no good from; besides which, I’ve learned from her more than she ever set out to teach, as I’ll tell you sometime. I must go; will you walk along with me?”

As we headed for Ortygia, I remembered Menekrates warning me not to go near the place. But I was ashamed to be less bold than a philosopher, not to speak of forsaking a friend. So far, only one thing was to be noticed about the streets—that they were empty.

I asked how Plato was, and if his mission had prospered. He made the gesture of a man so weary of his troubles that he can hardly bear to talk of them. “Plato’s as well,” he said, “as he’s likely to be after wasting a year for nothing, or worse than that. I suppose you’ve heard. All Dion’s property has been sold up, a hundred talents’ worth or more; and Dionysios has ceased even to pretend that he’ll get a drachma.”

I exclaimed suitably. There seemed nothing to say.

“You think Plato should have foreseen it. Of course he did. But with all these protestations, appeals and guarantees, he couldn’t be certain. Short of that, he didn’t think he should hold back.”

“When my bad day comes, God send me such a friend.”

“He’s always been the same. At Sokrates’ trial, neither his kin nor his friends could keep him from getting up to testify. When the court laughed him down because of his youth, which I daresay saved his life, he fell so sick with grief, they doubted he’d outlive Sokrates. May he keep his luck. I tell you, I begin to wonder.”

“What? But the Archon …”

“Every day it’s worse. How not, unless the man had really changed? Plato came here for Dion’s sake. That was the bait. Merely by taking it, he had Dionysios jealous even before he’d sailed. Every word he’s spoken for Dion has been oil on fire. Every friend of Dion’s he takes notice of is a mark against him. It can’t stretch much more without breaking. Each time I come here, I’m cold with fear of what I’ll find.”

I don’t know what he thought his own life would be worth with Plato gone. He did not speak of it, but strode on, a thin quick harassed man, towards Ortygia. I could hardly keep up.

We got over the causeway and through the gates without any trouble. The reason was simple. No guards were there. They had shut the big gates, but left the posterns open.

At the last of them, Speusippos said, as if we had been strolling from the Agora to the Academy, “Well, Niko, thanks for your company on the way.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “What do you take me for? Come on.”

He was in too much haste to argue, and, with the hill, soon out of breath. Nikeratos, I thought, you are too big a fool to live, and so you may find. At the same time, I am inquisitive; there is no sense in putting up with the hardships of travel unless one looks about.

We had got to the barrack quarter, the street, I think, of the Gauls. It was empty, no men off duty standing about, or dicing on doorsteps. The doors hung open. Soldiers have to be very overwrought to stop guarding their things from other soldiers. I was pointing this out to Speusippos, when we heard the yelling.

Someone up ahead had started a kind of paean. Never having heard any of these barbarians in action, I don’t know whose it was; in any case, all the rest took up their own, in a cacophony I can’t describe. Now and then some howl more piercing than the rest would catch the general ear, and they would come in on that with a wordless bellow all together.

I felt a weakness in my knees, like stagefright but worse. “They’re under the walls,” I said. “You can hear. The gates must be shut. No use going further.”

There was a soldier coming down the street. I was all for getting out of the way; so I think was Speusippos; then suddenly he started forward, exclaiming, “Herakleides!”

He was an officer, Sicilian Greek, dark and good-looking, with the dress and speech of a gentleman and an easy, pleasant way. He had been so wrapped up in his own concerns as he came that he had not seen us till he was almost on us; but he did not look scared or ashamed like a man running away and, as soon as he saw Speusippos, gave him an open steady look. Then he said, “I’m off duty.”

“In the name of the gods,” said Speusippos. “Listen.”

He lifted his brows. “What do you mean? I hear nothing.”

Speusippos drew breath to speak, then waited. Herakleides shrugged his shoulders. “Some of my best men are there. Men who got me off the field with a spearhead in me, when they might have left me to be cut and trimmed by the Carthaginians. I can’t stop them; I can only give them an order they won’t listen to, which won’t help discipline tomorrow, and take their names. No names, no floggings. In their place, I’d be there too.” He went off downhill. I remember thinking what a simple, decent fellow he was, and how his men must love him.

Up above, the yelling got louder. Across the top of the street, a troop of Nubians went by towards the palace. They were stamping as they went, and chanting in time with it; now and then they would give a whoop, and leap, tossing up their spears. I pulled Speusippos into a doorway. “Come home,” I said. “What can you do? Those walls there are ten feet thick; they’ll never get in.”

“Not,” he answered, “if the men inside want to keep them out.”

“It’s with the gods,” I said, for want of any other comfort. “Let’s be gone from here.”

He took a few steps with me, then stopped. “No. I’ll wait. If they can get in, then so can I.” No doubt my face was an open book. He pressed my shoulder. “My dear Niko, go back, you’ve come more than far enough. You’ve no call to stay; I have … He would have died with Sokrates, and I’ve had more of my life than he’d had then. If it’s his turn now, I can’t leave him to die alone.”

One part of me applauded this; the rest was angry with him for catching me up in his choice. I said, “No, I’ll come with you to the walls, to see what is going on. If you want to get yourself killed inside, that’s another thing.” And I turned up the street beside him.

Soon we got to the wide ring-road that circled the palace wall. We could hear the noise further along. As we walked that way, a squad of Romans ran past us shouting to each other. Presently we came to the great main gates, twenty feet high. There was a square before them; below, the Sacred Way cut down towards the causeway, lined with trees, statues and shrines. Filling the square were the soldiers. They had kept together more or less, Iberians with Iberians and so on; beyond this, they were a mob, and the most dangerous sort on earth, being both armed and used to violence. The one comfort was that, since the day was early, they were not drunk.

Now we were near, we could hear that they were shouting in their different uncouth accents, “Dionysios!” When no one came, they threw up stones at the gatehouse. The Nubians were the best shots. There was a sculptured frieze above; they were aiming at the gods’ heads, and had knocked half off already. To my surprise, the Gauls were absent.

There were cheers; all heads turned towards the Sacred Way. Here were the Gauls. Stripped naked for battle, with blue war paint flourished all over them, they were hauling up the slope a huge beam, I should think a keel from one of the naval yards. The crowd rushed to help; the beam came up the square as if on wings. They lined up each side, while some expert started a heaving chant. The gate was oak and iron, but I did not see it holding long.

They rammed it two or three times; the tongues of the hinges began to start. Speusippos watched in silence, no doubt composing himself with philosophy. The Gauls plodded back for another run-in.

A trumpet sounded above the gate. The yells died to muttering. The Gauls laid the ram down for a rest. A Greek voice called, “Dionysios!”

An old man in armor appeared on the gate tower. There was almost silence. It was Philistos.

He looked older than I remembered. His florid face had mottled, his eyes had sunk, his nose was sharper and bluer. At sight of him they growled, but listened. He might not be a loved commander; but he was there, standing in javelin-range. He had earned a hearing.

The upshot of his speech was that there had been a great misunderstanding. Ill-disposed persons had falsified the Archon’s orders. He had been shocked to learn of their grievance. Not only were veterans’ wages being maintained; they would be raised, from today.

There were cheers, of course, triumphant, but ironic. One could hear it in the voice of every race, though the note was different. Even with the Nubians, one could tell.

Philistos gazed down at them. He was a man I detested; but there was not much pleasure in watching an old general shoved out to give his troops this craven he. He did it, I must own, with what dignity it allowed.

He limped stiffly down to the stair rail. The Greek who had called before shouted again for Dionysios; this time it was an open jeer. But no one came.

The mob broke up, and went off in groups shouting and singing towards the wineshops, leaving the ram in the street. The Gauls shouldered past us either side, but noticed us no more than dogs. The morning was getting warm, and the sweat ran down their war paint. It did not blur; it must have been a kind of tattooing. They smelled like horses.

Speusippos and I were left in the empty square, by the ram with its frayed hammered nose. He did not have to die with Plato, nor I with him. I expected him to be looking as relieved as I. But he was standing with his mouth set in a hard, shrewd look that was new to me, gazing after the soldiers. He said, “Dion should know of this.”

Nothing surprised me much by now. I said, “Do you mean what I think?”

“I daresay,” he answered. Then: “I was talking to that girl last night. She was twelve years old when some scout of Philistos’ saw her and hauled her off from home to amuse Dionysios. Her father objected; he went to the quarries and was never seen again. Dionysios hadn’t even decency enough to have her sent home after. She was put out like a stray cat, picked up by some Iberians, and passed around the barracks. Her own story’s nothing to some she told me; but sharing a bed seems to bring it home. He can do anything he likes, to anyone, that one man alone. It’s hard for the mind to grasp it.”

He was right; when one is not bred to it, one doesn’t conceive it, it must be smelled and tasted. Like me, he was too young to remember it at home. For that matter, even the Thirty had at least to agree together. “One man,” he said again.